


Black Mamba

by queenofhell_proserpina



Series: Cultverse [3]
Category: Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, The Academy Is...
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cults, Brainwashing, Gabe's Basement, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:58:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2511803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofhell_proserpina/pseuds/queenofhell_proserpina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We're living what we're singing, so I guess that's a step in the right direction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Mamba

1

Attention, attention,  
May I have all your eyes and ears  
To the front of the room  
If only for one second  
To see what I have to say  
\--The Academy Is // Attention

The first time William gets fucked by Pete Wentz, he’s sixteen years old. This is shortly after he meets Pete Wentz, down in Patrick’s basement one fairly innocuous afternoon. (Years later, William will think about the recurring setting of basements in his psychosexual development, and write a short story using basements as an extended metaphor for enlightenment. Pete will reject it as a potential chapter for their book, but he’ll tell William that he likes it anyway.)

He knew who Pete was before that—of course he did; everyone knew Pete Wentz. He was Racetraitor Pete, Arma Angelus Pete, Pete who the hardcore kids whisper about in corners like a secret, “Pete said—“, “Pete told me—”, and then quieting as soon as anyone got close.

So when he first hears that Pete Wentz is starting a new band with Patrick Stumph, he doesn’t believe it. Not that Patrick doesn’t have the talent—fuck no. He’s better at songwriting than anyone Bill knows personally, and Bill’s been trying to get him to pick up a mic since he first heard Patrick singing along to a Prince song on the radio. It’s not surprising that if anyone could get him out from behind the drum kit, it’s Pete Wentz.

What’s surprising is that Pete Wentz chose Patrick Stumph to sing for him—Patrick who William’s known since middle school, Patrick who would rather stay in his room with his headphones than go out, Patrick who’s as different from Pete Wentz as two people possibly can be. Patrick wasn’t even in a band before that, as far as William knew—he and Bill had started a couple of things together, a few garage projects that went nowhere, but after that Patrick was just working at Borders and fucking around with GarageBand in his room, not even going to shows. William hasn’t even talked to him in probably a year.

So of course, he invites himself to rehearsal. Back when they hung out, he and Patrick used to talk about Arma Angelus and whatever contradictory legends of Pete Wentz were going around the scene at the time (that he was a genius, that he was a psycho, that he’d killed some kid who was going to squeal on him for statutory rape, that he was secretly a really nice guy and did volunteer work on weekends, that he was starting a cult, that he was starting a new band, that he was leaving Chicago forever to do missionary work in Africa) so when he shows up on Patrick’s doorstep, Patrick just rolls his eyes and lets him in.

“Just to warn you, right now we suck,” Patrick tells him as they were going downstairs to the basement.

“It’s Pete Wentz,” William whispers, trying to keep his voice low so that Pete Wentz couldn’t hear him. “Nothing he does sucks.” Patrick just snorts and rolls his eyes.

Patrick doesn’t introduce him, just picks up his guitar and starts to play again, and it turns out that he’s right—they do kind of suck. The music they’re playing is totally different than anything William had been expecting from Pete Wentz’s new band, pop-punkish and kind of catchy. Mostly they play covers, but there are a couple of songs Bill recognizes as Patrick’s style. They don’t quite have a sound yet, don’t have their playing quite together, and Patrick keeps his voice low in his throat, only singing louder when Pete comes up behind him, nudging him with his bass. When he isn’t nudging Patrick, or staring at his throat and the sounds that come out of it, Pete keeps looking over at William, who’s sitting on a couch and looking right back. Every time Pete looks over, his eyes are a little darker, a little more evaluating, and William feels his stomach get tight and hot.

When they’ve run through their short list of songs, Pete slings an arm over Patrick’s shoulders, pulling him close. “You’re not quite there yet, baby, but you’re getting there,” he says, and Patrick blushes, uncomfortable as ever with a compliment. He shrugs off Pete’s arm to put away his guitar, and Pete stares after him for a moment, eyes intense, speculative. William wonders for a moment what he’s thinking, looking at Patrick that way, but then Pete looks back over at him and William’s mind goes blank.

Pete walks over to William and looks down at him, head cocked. William’s seen him perform before, marveled at the intensity and the presence that he had, but in person, it’s even stronger. “So who’re you?”

William clears his throat nervously. “Bill. Um, William. Patrick and I go way back, I just wanted to check out his new band. Heard you guys were doing some cool things.”

“Yeah?” He’s still looking down, eyeing William like a new guitar he isn’t sure whether he wants to buy or not, and then he smiles, surprisingly sunny. “You need a ride home?”

2

I’m going to ask you a series of questions  
And I want them answered on the spot right now  
\--The Academy Is // The Phrase That Pays

The other guitarist, Joe, drives silently, smoking a cigarette and flicking the ashes out the window. Pete sits in back with William, smiling at him charmingly and asking him how he knows Patrick, what shows he’s been to lately, what bands he’s been in.

“So, Bill-um-William, what do you do?”

“I sing,” William says. The longer he talks to Pete, the more normal this whole thing seems, and besides, this is the one thing he’s really confident about. “I’m a singer,” he says again, and tilts his head back proudly. “And I write.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

William shrugs. “Short stories, poems. Some lyrics.”

“Maybe I can look some of your stuff over next time. You know, the next time you come over to see your good friend Patrick.” Pete grins slyly and William blushes, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear.

He’s not particularly surprised when they end up at Pete’s apartment building instead of his house. He knows where this is going, figured it out somewhere between Pete looking at him in Patrick’s basement and Pete’s hand on his thigh in the back of the car, and even though he’s never done this before, he’s pretty sure he wants it. When Joe stops the car, Pete gets out and holds the door open until William gets out too. “I’ll call you later to come pick up the kid,” he tells Joe, and Joe just nods like this is something that happens all the time.

“So what is he, like, your chauffeur?” William jokes while Pete unlocks the door.

“He’s—a friend,” Pete says. “You know. Bandmates have to help each other out. Joe, he helps me out.”

“Helps you out with what?”

Pete stills for a second, then opens the door. “Oh, you know. Many and varied things.”

“Like picking up teenagers from your apartment?” William asks, feeling suddenly bold.

Pete turns around and grins at him. “Yeah. Sometimes, things like that. Is that a problem?” His teeth are sharp; William can picture them biting his neck, his shoulders, his thighs.

“N-no,” he says, and steps inside.

3

Show me, show me, show me a starry-eyed kid,  
I, I, I will break his jaw.  
I won’t, I won’t, I won’t let him get his hopes up, no.  
And I will save him from himself.  
\--Fall Out Boy // Snitches and Talkers Get Stitches and Walkers

”How old are you?” Pete asks. They’re in Pete’s bedroom now, sitting on his low bed, and Pete hasn’t even kissed him yet, just took him by the hand and led him in there, and now they’re sitting, looking at each other, Pete’s hand just barely hovering around William’s cheek.

“I—sixteen,” William admits. He can’t lie to Pete Wentz—he just can’t. Something about his eyes and the way he looks at William, like he knows all of his secrets.

“Hmm. You’re just a baby,” Pete says, cupping William’s jaw, tilting his head back. He’s smiling, but just barely, and this feels more like an examination than anything else, like William’s poems, marked in red pen by a teacher.

“Same age as Patrick,” William offers, which is only kind of a lie—he’s a little bit younger—but it makes Pete draw in his breath sharply.

“Yeah. The both of you, you’re both still growing up. Still growing into your faces,” Pete says, and it’s strange for William to think about, that someday he’ll look different than he does now. That he won’t always be sixteen and awkward and he’s aching for that day, absolutely aching for it. And for Pete, too, aching, he wants this so bad. “Just think about it—what the both of you will be in five years. It’s not always gonna be like this, you know. You won’t always be stuck,” and William wonders how Pete knows, knows how stilted and stagnant he feels, in high school and in his parents’ house and in his undeveloped brain and body. “Someday you’ll be something special. I can see what you’re going to be. I can help you.”

“Help me,” William echoes, confused and wanting, and Pete kisses him, hard and biting and deep.

Pete talks the whole time that he’s fucking William, offering advice with every stroke of William’s skin. “You should grow this out,” curling his fingers into William’s hair as William sucks him, mouth unpracticed and awkward. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of your body, you know; you should show this off, show it to everyone,” running his hands over William’s bony hips, the curve of his belly. “Yeah, use your voice like that. Let me hear it,” making William moan and writhe.

“When you’re inside of someone like this, its like you can read their mind. I can see every thought in your pretty little head right now,” murmured into William’s ear while Pete’s inside of him, fucking him, and William believes him. Pete can read his mind, can tell what he’s thinking, proving it when he reaches down to fist William’s cock.

Pete says things after that, too; strange things, things that make William’s insides feel like they’re twisting, like Pete really has read the inside of his head and translated William’s thoughts into poetry, the darkest and brightest parts of him laid out for his own perusal, and William gasps, and comes, Pete’s words echoing of the corners of his mind.

4

We’re living what we’re singing  
So I guess that’s a step in the right direction  
Clever composition in the honesty  
\--The Academy Is // Black Mamba

Afterwards, when the afterglow has worn off, William looks at Pete a little warily as they both dress. He’d known that Pete would be…intense. The scene kids talk about going home with him like it’s not just a fuck, not even just a starfuck, but a life-changing experience. William can see that—if he were just a little younger, a little more impressionable, he would probably feel the same way. As it is he feels strangely admiring of Pete, that he can use his words like a drug, a mind-altering substance. William wants his own words to have that much power some day.

He says as much to Pete, and Pete looks at him, obviously surprised and equally wary. “You caught that, huh?” William nods, and Pete walks over to him, fisting a hand in William’s hair. He pulls, tight, but William knows this game instinctively; he doesn’t flinch, just stands there and stares into Pete’s eyes just as hard as Pete is staring into his.

Pete smiles, and lets go of his hair. “You’re a smart little dude, aren’t you? Smarter than you look.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Don’t take it personally. If you want your words to have power…” Pete hesitates, obviously searching for the best way to phrase it. “It’s good to be underestimated, sometimes. That’s why I’m switching to a new sound, a new way to deliver the message. Wrap it up pretty and nobody expects it to be a weapon. You know what I mean?” Pete looks at him intently, and William gets that this is another test. Maybe the sex was a test, too, but this is the real thing.

“Yeah,” he says. “I think so.”

“And hey--don’t tell Patrick about this,” Pete says. He still has his shirt in his hand, so he’s bare-chested, covered in sweat, and his eyes are dark and serious.

William wants to say something (“Because you’re fucking him, or because you want to be fucking him?” or “What, your teenage fuck toys can’t know about each other?”) but Pete’s eyes are still staring into him intently, and the fact is, he’s still in Pete’s apartment, behind the locked door, and he’s starting to wonder how many of those rumors about Pete are true. So instead he just says, “Yeah, sure. I won’t tell him.”

Pete nods curtly and picks up the phone to call Joe. On the way to William’s house, Joe keeps glancing at William out of the corner of his eye until William finally says, “Fuck, what?”

“Did he share it with you? The message?” Joe’s eyes are curious and shining, eager like a puppy that wants someone to play with. William shrugs, and Joe just smiles. “Don’t worry. If he let you walk out of there, that means you’re worthy. You’ll get it soon.” William’s pretty sure that he gets more of it than Joe does, but he doesn’t say anything, just thanks him for the ride when Joe stops in front of his house.

5

Attention bidders, its Lot 45:  
He’s got a decent voice; he’s got that crooked smile  
\--The Academy Is // Classifieds

After that, Pete doesn’t touch William again for a long time. He talks to him, about philosophy and politics and literature, even looks over William’s lyrics like he said he would, but he doesn’t try to fuck him again, and brushes William off when he tries to start something. William tries hard to be pissed at him for that, but Pete was right—he’s growing into his face now, into his body, into himself. He’s got fans of his own now, little scene kids who stare up at him when he’s performing, boys and girls and men and women who look at his face and his body with something like awe. He’s pissed about that for a while, too, but Pete just snorts at him. “It’s a gift, man. Use it. Every message needs a vehicle; if your pretty face gets your words out there, then why the fuck not use it?”

So he does. He goes out on stage and flips his hair over his shoulder, twirling it around his fingers; he bends his long body and pulls his shirt up to show off those bony hips he was so ashamed of for so long, and they eat it up. And it’s not just his body, his face, that are affecting people, not for long; soon he has kids coming up to him to talk about how his voice and his music and his words touch them.

And sometimes he takes one of those skinny little scene kids home and fucks them, whispering his words into their ear, suggestions to make them stronger and smarter and better, just like Pete did for him.

6

We’re shaping up to be all you wish you could have been,  
To write the hits and to turn their heads,  
And to open eyes to a brand new season…  
I’ll sing you something you won’t forget.  
For the first time I know this is now who I am.  
\--The Academy Is // Season

He could tell afterwards, after Pete did fuck Patrick. They went on tour (“our first _real_ tour,” Patrick calls it) and Patrick came back different, eyes darker and mouth redder, a little quieter, maybe, but mostly just—different. And because the two of them were a contrast, a study in black and white, Pete’s eyes were brighter, his gestures more expansive, his ideas bigger than ever. “He gets it now,” he told William, excited and manic. “God, I knew I was right to choose him. Nobody else gets me like he does; nobody else could shape the words in my head like he can. He’s my voice.” William just pushes the jealousy down deep into his stomach and smiles through it, mostly happy for Pete, for Patrick. William has his own voice, his own words to sing.

Besides, after that, William can see what Pete sees in Patrick. He’s not the same kid that William knew in middle school anymore; like William, he’s growing into his face, becoming who he was meant to be, and now that he has Pete’s words inside of him, he has some of Pete’s intensity, too, that look in his eyes like he knows something other people don’t.

“Tell me about it,” William says one day when they’re hanging out after a show. Patrick looks up at him through his glasses for a moment, blushing, and William rolls his eyes. “It’s okay, he fucked me too. You won’t be giving away any secrets if you tell me. I just want to know what it was like for you.”

Patrick opens his mouth, tongue wetting his lower lip, and then he begins to talk. About that first night in the back of the van, Joe’s eyes and Pete’s hands on him, touched and kissed and fucked for the first time with no clue of what was going on, or why. About the bruises on his wrists, his hips, the suckmarks on his shoulders and thighs that didn’t go away for the entire tour; Pete always left something behind, “to remind me,” Patrick says, smiling. About the time when he finally got it, someone’s t-shirt tied over his eyes and someone’s belt around his wrists, Pete’s cock inside him and Pete’s words inside him, deep in his brain, and everything made sense again, finally, for the first time. “He was so proud of me after that,” Patrick says, eyes shining, and William isn’t sure if he should be jealous or relieved that Pete had chosen Patrick instead of him.

The next time he sees Pete, he looks at him a little more critically. Watches him go around the club, arms around the skinny waists of underage scene kids, mouth always attached to some ear, always talking, always spreading his message, and it seems even more calculated than it did when he first did it to William. Now he has the image of Pete holding Patrick down in the back of the van burned into his mind, right on top of the words Pete left, and he remembers what Joe told him; wonders what happens to the kids who aren’t worthy.

When Pete sees William, his eyes narrow and darken, and William has the sudden urge to run, fast and far. But he stands his ground, raises his chin, and when Pete sees him he slides an arm around William’s skinny waist, attaches his mouth to William’s ear. “So, Patrick told me that he told you about the tour,” he breathes. “Did you like hearing about that, Patrick stripped bare for me, mind and body? Did you wish it was you? Or,” he says slowly, “did you wish that you were there to see it?”

William just stares down at him, glad for every inch of height he has over Pete. He’s not going to be another of those scene kids, the ones who are awed by Pete—not anymore. He knows who Pete is, knows what he’s about, and even though William gets it, understands it, even admires it, he’s got his own thing going on, too. His own voice, his own words.

“If I said yes,” he says slowly, “would you show him to me that way?”

Pete grins.

7

“This song is about loving a girl so much you want to keep her tied up in the basement and not share her with rest of the world.”  
\--Gabe Saporta

Gabe’s always been around the scene, running around and running his mouth. His band’s great, and he’s a fun drinking buddy, but William doesn’t think much of him until Gabe invites him to his house one night.

It’s an actual house, for one thing; it’s just a small place, and his band rents it together, but still—everyone else William knows either lives in a shitty little apartment or their parents’ place, William included. “I like the privacy,” Gabe says as he opens the door. “In an apartment, everyone knows your shit. Out here…it’s just me and my boys and whoever we decide to bring home with us.” William raises an eyebrow at that, and Gabe laughs. “Come on, get in here.”

The living room is pretty sparsely decorated, a couch and a couple of cushiony chairs, coffee table, TV. William sits on the couch and lets Gabe bring him a beer, holding out his hand impatiently when Gabe doesn’t just hand it over.

“Are you even old enough to drink?” Gabe asks teasingly. “You look a little young to me.”

“Oh, fuck you and gimme my beer,” William says.

“How about something a little harder?” Gabe says, his crotch still at William’s eye level, and William laughs. “Hey, no, shut up. I think I’ve got some Jack Daniels around, you want?”

“Sounds good.”

Gabe puts a shot in front of him, and then another, and then another, and William downs them all. When he feels pleasantly buzzed and tells Gabe so, Gabe just smiles at him and turns on the TV.

The image on the screen is a little bit grainy, a little dark, like home video, but it’s clearly a girl. She’s naked, bound at wrists and ankles, and her eyes are covered by a blindfold. Midtown’s second album is playing quietly enough that William can hear her whimpers over the music.

Gabe leans in close to his ear and breathes warm, sober air. “Closed-circuit TV,” he says. “Image quality’s not so good, but I’m working on getting some better equipment. I know you dig my band. Now I wanna know what you think of my real work.”

William watches the girl for a while longer, watches her try unsuccessfully to stretch in her bonds, and then turns to Gabe. “Not bad,” he says. “So, have you ever met Pete Wentz?”

8

“Sometimes, I kept William Beckett locked up in the basement for a while. Sometimes I want him all to myself. A little snuggle bud.”  
\--Gabe Saporta

William’s own time in the basement is surprisingly good. The time alone, in the dark with the blindfold over his eyes, gives him time to think of lyrics, and his time onstage has given him an appreciation for being appreciated. He likes the idea of Gabe watching him; likes it even better when Gabe is down there with him, on top of him and whispering in languages William doesn’t even know but still understands every word of. Its more intense than it was with Pete, more of an experience, but then he’d gotten the soft version. William wonders if this is what it was like for Patrick in the back of the van, feeling that focused attention and knowing that it’s all on him, knowing how important he has to be for Gabe to go through the trouble. Most people get a weekend, maybe; William gets a full week, the first time.

He doesn’t see the cobra, but he dreams about it one night.

When Gabe brings him out, leading him blinking into the light of upstairs, William feels blurry but still distinct, still himself. When he tells Gabe that, he just laughs. “I know, man, trust me. You’ve got your own thing going on; I don’t want to take that away from you. I just want you to know what my thing is like. I wanted to share it with you. You’re my buddy, you know? You’re part of the Cobra now.”

“Yeah,” William says, rubbing the red marks on his wrists, “I know.”

When they watch the tapes together later, William watches himself arch and beg and cry on the screen, and he finally sees what other people see in him. “Yeah, watch yourself,” Gabe says breathily, hand slipping into William’s jeans. “You’re so pretty, huh? Can’t even take your eyes off yourself.”

“Yeah,” William agrees, eyes slipping closed. “Pretty.”

“Wait till we get Travis and Maja down there, make them part of the Cobra,” Gabe whispers. “I bet they’ll be pretty, too.”

“God,” William says, and arches up, coming into Gabe’s hand.

9

Hollywood hills and suburban thrills;  
Hey you, who are you kidding?  
I’m not like them; I won’t buy in.  
\--The Academy Is // Slow Down

“Do you think Pete really knows what he’s doing?” Gabe muses lazily over the phone one day.

“Of course he does,” William says. “He’s—like, come on. He’s Pete.”

“Yeah,” Gabe says. “It’s just, like. I mean, what the fuck has he done lately? He’s living in L.A. He’s fucking around with starlets and rappers. And frankly, there’s the thing with the pills.”

“That was two fucking years ago, Gabe, and just…come on. That’s fucking low.”

“No, I know, I know,” Gabe says fast, that quick stutter of words that means he’s onto something. “It’s not even about that. I’m talking about the pills he’s on right now. Anti-anxiety, depression—I mean, if he knows what he’s doing, what the fuck’s he got to be anxious about. You know?”

It’s something William’s thought before, too. He remembers back when Pete was on the pills the first time, how he was suddenly different, isolated and paranoid, not even talking to Patrick; not even letting his fucking voice know what he was thinking. Pete went off them after the Best Buy thing, but William knows he’s on them again, he’s heard the pills rattle in their bottle over the phone line as Pete swallows one, all the way over there in L.A.

“Yeah,” William sighs. “I know.”

“And, like—did I tell you he let me put Patrick in the basement?”

“What?” William sits up straighter on the couch. Pete let Gabe have Patrick. Patrick, his voice, the fucking gatekeeper of his message, and Pete let Gabe put him in the basement. William knows without asking that it wasn’t like the time with him and Pete and Patrick. That time, Pete just let him watch, didn’t even let him touch Patrick except a stroke here and there on his skin, just to supplement Pete’s work. If it happened in Gabe’s basement, though, that’s Gabe’s territory; no way was Pete in charge.

“Yeah, exactly,” Gabe says. “If he was fucking sure of himself, he’d never have let me have Patrick.”

“Maybe that’s why. I mean, maybe he knew Patrick wouldn’t take the Cobra, and he just wanted you to know that, too. I know he thinks you took it too far with the Elisa thing, so maybe he just wants you to back the fuck off. Show you his power.”

“Uh-uh,” Gabe says. “You didn’t see him up there. He was nervous. He was popping those fucking pills. And yeah, Patrick didn’t break—too much,” and William can hear the smirk in his voice, “but that’s Patrick. We all know Pete worked on him longer than he’s ever worked on anyone else; if Pete’s even halfway decent at what he does, then no way in hell was Patrick going to break anyway. The important part is that he let me have him in the first place.”

“Shit.” William breathes in deep and long. “So what the fuck do we do?”

“I don’t know yet,” Gabe says. “Just watch for a while, I think. We’re going on tour with them pretty soon. I think we’ll be able to assess the situation better once we’re actually in it. The only thing I do fucking know is that I’m not letting Pete give me any more shit about what I do with my own people,” Gabe says, and William knows that he’s included in that, that he’s one of Gabe’s people. Part of the Cobra.

“Yeah. That sounds good for now,” William agrees. “You gonna tell Travis what’s going on?”

“Of course, man. He’s my next call, right after you, light of my life,” Gabe says sweetly, and William laughs.

“Good. And hey, I wanna see that tape.”

“Patrick?”

“Of course. I bet he was pretty down there.”

“Not nearly as pretty as you, baby,” Gabe laughs, “but yeah. It was good. We’ll get together soon, I’ll let you know the latest Cobra news, we’ll get liquored up and watch Patrick Stump basement porn and jerk each other off. Sound good?”

“It’s a date,” William says, and hangs up.

He considers calling Pete, telling him what’s going on, but Gabe’s right. Pete’s different now, less focused, too spread out to even see what’s going on right in front of his face. Its better for him to wait, like Gabe said; go on the tour and spend some one-on-one time with Pete and see where his head’s at. He’s not fifteen anymore but he still believes in Pete Wentz, Racetraitor Pete, Arma Pete; is pretty sure that he’s still buried somewhere in there among the Hollywood bullshit and prescription drugs. But he’s part of the Cobra now, too, and that might be bigger, stronger, more real than even Pete Wentz.

All he’s going to do right now is wait until the tour starts, and then see what happens next.


End file.
